


ex-bad girls club

by cherie_and_her_flop_ficz



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, The Incredibles (2004)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 11:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7047493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherie_and_her_flop_ficz/pseuds/cherie_and_her_flop_ficz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here is the end before the beginning: we scrape you off the bottom of our six-inch heels like dog shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ex-bad girls club

"Hi, I'm Ilsa—"

_"Hi, Ilsa."_

"—and I've been an ex-bad girl for eight months now."

Mirage claps in cadence with the rest of the group, their applauding nails a musical of cracking bones. The British woman smiles at the acceptance, blushing but never glancing down. She goes on to sum her story. She talks about her SO, a man she describes to be "embarrassingly older" than her, though their age difference did nothing to stop them from sleeping together a few times. _He is still alive_ , she says, quivering at the fact.

 _In custody_ , she adds afterward, but says that she wouldn't be surprised to wake up one morning and read news stating otherwise. In vulnerable hours of loneliness, Mirage thinks she would prefer it that way. She guesses that that's what this group is for.

The next former-villaness stands and centers herself. It is when she starts an empowered rant about being independent enough to be bad on her own that the woman on the right of Mirage mutters, "This is pointless," and slouches down in her seat.

Mirage looks at her—Mercy Graves of the LexCorp (previously)

personal bodyguard of the billionaire himself (previously)

woman scorned (currently)—and lets out a soft laugh.

"Healing?"

Mercy looks out of the corner of her eye, and then fixes her glasses on the narrow runway of her nose. Her legs are long and, slouched the way she is, they touch the median of the circle. The woman at the center of it gives her an irked look but Mercy just stretches out more.

"Acting," she states. "Joining together and playing storytime. This is all a big play and we're the washed up, long-forgotten actresses pretending we're not affected by being abandoned by our directors."

It is a quiet outburst, but those are always the most impactful. Mirage hadn't expected it and quickly glances down at her hands, her nerves shaken by its savagery. She wrings them in her lap and smooths out her skirt. It takes her fingertips massaging the fabric four times to get them to still. Mercy reaches for her purse beneath her seat.

"You're wrong," Mirage decides, stopping her from standing.

Mercy lifts an eyebrow as if the statement is the wrongest thing she has ever heard. She props the patent leather purse in her lap and tilts her head, sharp edges of her haircut slicing that way, and motions for an explanation.

"Not all of us are here because we were considered expendable. You're not," Mirage motions. "I heard Lex begged for your reemployment after hearing you survived the explosion."

With a scoff, Mercy rolls her eyes and settles them on the back wall. Mirage sees a lot of things in them—strength, independence, backbone she wishes she had.

She likes to think that if Syndrome offered her her job back, if he were assembled from his firework ashes and alive to _do_ it, she'd tell him with the flip of her white hair to go fuck himself. Those vulnerable hours of loneliness are effective, though. They happen during the day, when she is at her home desk sorting through paperwork and is about to toss a jab at him over her shoulder and— _oh_. Nightly relapses are more frequent; her fingers pressed inside of herself, body thrashing around, trying to recall any hint of his nerd-driven fury in bed.

With another eye roll, Mercy shakes her from the thought and clarifies, "Mr. Luthor didn't beg for anything. One of his workers emailed me, yes. The text of the request can best be described as impersonal." She shakes her head, bob shimmering, and smiles deliriously. "I thought I was worth more than that."

Mirage has never been a touchy comforter—she is better with lilting words, seduction via lips—but this time she slides her hand into the woman's and squeezes. At first Mercy grabs back too hard, still so used to slinging bodies that got in the way of Lex. The hold softens in coming seconds.

"Mercy Graves, you _are_ worth more than that," Mirage says, sounding much too similar to their over-the-top group leader. _You matter, ladies_ , she cheered as they entered. _Wear that red lipstick like it's your SO's blood!_ Oh, how Mirage wishes Syndrome didn't blow into dust for her to do so. "The fact that Lex put aside his pride and reached out to you at all shows it. You are valuable, you are essential to his work ethic, and ... Mercy, you're up."

Mercy looks to see that she is next in the line-up. All villainous eyes are on her, running over the length of her limbs and wondering what they're capable of.

"You owe me a drink," she decides. Mirage smirks.

.

.

.

Two vodka martinis in, Mirage what-the-hells and asks, "So, how was it? With Lex?"

The question is curiosity-driven rather than alcohol-induced, though she is certainly working her way there. She hopes to get drunk enough to be able to take Mercy home. It is a peculiar thought, one she never before experienced toward another woman. Something about the heaviness between them makes her put her glass _down_.

"I suppose you're asking from a mischievous point of view?" Mercy has to look away from the misbehaving Mirage, who tickles her with the roguish nod of her head. She shrugs, stirring her drink with a thin straw. "I don't know if I'm willing to share that. All the reporters want to know—"

"Oh, I _know_. The stories they make up are vexing. Apparently I'm some sex goddess from old Cuban mythology. I mean, I _am_ ," Mirage doesn't know what kind of reaction she expected from Mercy—the intrigued lift of her eyebrow, a shade of red tinging her cheeks, the roll of her eyes—but she didn't anticipate her forcing a cute giggle into her hand, "but that's not exactly what I enjoy reading about myself in the morning press."

Mercy composes herself. "Cuban sex goddess," she repeats, shaking her head into her next shot glass. "Mmm. How was it with Mr. Pine?"

"Angry," Mirage sums. "Rough, fast, _hard_ ... though he never lasted long."

"Climaxing quickly is better than not building yourself up to get there."

"What? Spill!"

"Mr. Luthor— _Lex_ —we started once ..." Mercy shivers at the thought. "A minute in, he jumps off to redress and says he formed a great idea for one of his inventions. Apparently he had to write it down right then and there."

"Oh, Mercy," Mirage reaches across the distance of their bar stools and takes her hand. She gives it a sympathetic squeeze, holding her eyes a moment before waving down the bartender. She orders another two shot glasses and doesn't speak again until they hold them up. "To bad guys with even badder girls whose bomb ass pussies are taken for granted?"

Mercy dips her head in another darling giggle. Her laughs are always short and sweet, and a shade of embarrassment crosses the cosmos of her complexion. Mirage, a melter of men, a chemical element in her own stature, feels oddly weak at the sight. The weakness is warm though, like the bottom of their glasses when Mercy repeats, "To bad guys and bad girls—badder girls—oh, whatever the hell you said," and they crack into another fit of laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> for sabine! thanks for sending me "Mercy/Mirage + the villain dick is Wack" out of the blue last week. your prompts are blessings.


End file.
